Chapter 33#

The Secret#

Shaque didn’t want to become Shisanniang. The reason he fled was because he had killed Shisanniang.

Shaque thought he would grieve, but he didn’t. He felt nothing at all. He simply left Jiuchong like that. It wasn’t raining at the time. As Shaque walked and walked, he suddenly began to laugh.

Dusk closed in on all sides, the heavens and earth vast and boundless.

In that empty wilderness, Shaque laughed until he bent double, then laughed until he dry-heaved. He hurriedly wiped the water from his face, but it seemed as if it would never stop—droplets rolling one by one through his fingers.

Sha Sanqing. It was as if Shisanniang were still calling him. He refused to look back, getting up to press onward.

Anywhere would do.

Shaque.

Anywhere at all.

Shaque arrived at the mutual market. At first, he lay low in a two-story building and only slept during the day. Daylight, when it filtered through the lattice windows, put Shaque at ease. Whenever he woke, he would lie with his eyes open, listening to the camel bells pass by below the window.

Later, once his injuries had healed, Shaque tried going downstairs. He never strayed far from home and kept his face hidden. Yellow sand whipped the merchant banners in the market, and Shaque wove among them like that. He had no friends and rarely spoke to anyone, but those days weren’t bad. Shaque didn’t mind them. He was determined to forget Shisanniang, to forget Jiuchong too.

But Hegao came after all.

The day Shaque saw Hegao, he made two decisions. The first was that he would stop hiding. The second was that he would stake everything on himself. The result was that he ended up in Senluo, lost his life, and ran into Yuan Bocheng.

The reason Shaque called Yuan Bocheng fake “Ah-ye” was because he himself was a false son—every word out of his mouth was a lie. But what about Yuan Bocheng? Yuan Bocheng was lying as well.

Yuan Bocheng was not from Jiuchong at all. When he had told Shaque that he understood him, it was because Shisanniang had once written to him. But Shisanniang had been dead for a long time—Yuan Bocheng didn’t even know.

This was Shaque’s secret.

Mijin released Shaque’s face and pulled him into his arms, reaching down to pick up the umbrella. It hadn’t held up for many flurries before the snow-wind stripped it down to a bare stick. Mijin simply abandoned it. He draped his own great cloak over Shaque and walked back with the person bundled against him.

In the distance, a bronze bell swayed. Shaque heard someone call out: “My lord!”

Longshan hurried over and presented a fur-lined cloak to Mijin: “Why aren’t you wearing your outer robe? In wind and snow this heavy, I waited at that alley entrance for ages—”

“Go bring Yumian’s carriage,” Mijin said, not taking the cloak. Instead, he draped it directly over Shaque’s head and scooped the person up in his arms. “Their young master is here.”

Longshan called out twice toward an ox-cart in the distance. The young servants hastened to drive it over. They had searched several rounds nearby, and the moment they spotted Mijin, they nearly tripped over each other in their rush to claim their person. Mijin didn’t even let them speak—he raised his arm and returned the person.

Shaque was still trembling. The young servants crowded around, nimble-fingered and eager, rummaging through the treasure chest inside the carriage, desperate to bundle Shaque up and haul him home on the spot. One of the young servants, out of courtesy, said to Mijin in a clear voice: “Marquis, please join us. Our carriage is large; we can also drop you off at Changdu Palace on the way.”

Mijin said nothing. He pulled back the cloak and revealed Shaque’s face. Shaque, sunk into that pile of robes, stared at him without blinking, as though he were bracing for something worse to come out of his mouth.

This man.

The north wind pressed on. The sky hung heavy and dark. The glazed-glass lanterns along the long street were all buried under the falling snow. The young servants were still bustling about. Shaque watched as Mijin raised his hand and tapped his own chest.

Naga’s expression hadn’t changed, as if it were the snow-wanderer who was the worst one of all.